


Attitude Boy Will Overcome

by retroflex



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Blood and Injury, Caning, Corporal Punishment, FE3H Kinkmeme, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Golden Deer Route, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Torture, Public Humiliation, Sylvain Jose Gautier's Father's Bad Parenting, Torture, Whump, pregnancy mention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-30
Updated: 2020-09-30
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:42:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26731567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/retroflex/pseuds/retroflex
Summary: The Officer's Academy at Garreg Mach isn't above using corporal punishment to discipline its most troublesome students. Traditionally, the punishment is carried out in public, performed by one of the three house leaders. Some find it distasteful, while others agree that it helps to keep impressionable young minds from straying from the path of righteousness.Sylvain Jose Gautier is dragged, kicking and screaming, to face punishment for a charge he swears he didn't commit.
Relationships: Sylvain Jose Gautier & Claude von Riegan, Sylvain Jose Gautier & Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd
Comments: 2
Kudos: 28
Collections: FE3H Kink Meme





	Attitude Boy Will Overcome

**Author's Note:**

> [you asked for it](https://3houseskinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/1608.html?thread=3214152#cmt3214152)  
> 
> 
> CW: This fic is a corporal punishment AU where Sylvain gets caned (twice!). There's blood, injuries, some swearing, and pregnancies out of wedlock. Seteth is also really mean. This prompt was for H/C but its mostly just 5k words of hurt, with the comfort tacked on at the very end. If this doesn't sound lovely, that's because it's not.
> 
> This was originally posted anonymously, and de-anon'd as of 2020-12-14.

“Hey,” Sylvain said, and swallowed nervously. “It’s not too late to talk about this. Right?”

Knights were not known for their senses of humor. The one tying Sylvain’s hands didn’t so much as turn his head.

“I was just trying to be nice,” protested Sylvain, trying to mask the quaver in his voice. “How was I supposed to know her brother was the archbishop’s sidekick? Are all the cardinals this petty?”

“Shut up,” said the knight, and tugged on the bindings a final time to make sure Sylvain’s circulation wasn’t cut off at the wrists—what a thoughtful guy, this one—before he stepped back to allow the crowd to take in the sight of him. And _oh_ , he could tell there was a crowd. Even immobile, tied by his hands, unable to turn around, Sylvain could plainly feel the eyes tracing over his shirtless body, with the hushed chatter and whispering granting him an ominous picture of just how many people had gathered to watch. He should have been flattered, he supposed. This _was_ a rather secluded corner of the monastery, where they kept all the stocks and pillories and other remnants of a more civilized age, and yet so many students had still come out to see him anyway.

And honestly, who could blame them? The first public caning of the school year promised more entertainment than any two-gold morality play. They made a show of these things for a reason.

“Sylvain Jose Gautier,” Seteth announced, his voice dripping with barely-concealed disgust, “your guardians sent you to this school with the understanding that you would be taught proper discipline and respect. Since your arrival, you’ve demonstrated nothing but lecherous, dishonorable behavior. Your conduct has proven unbefitting a student of the Officer’s Academy. To correct your behavior, a caning punishment of twelve cuts has been deemed appropriate, and, as is customary...”

A hush fell over the crowd. From his restrained position, Sylvain craned his neck around, trying to see what horrible fate lurked over his shoulder.

“...The punishment will be administered by your house leader.”

From out of the crowd, Dimitri reluctantly stepped forward, looking uncomfortable as could be before their shared audience. He held the stout metal cane lopsided in one hand. It was built sturdy and sharp, like the blade of a rapier, and it bore a tiny barb at its very tip. Sylvain’s heart started beating quicker in his chest.

“Sylvain,” Dimitri said, awkwardly, and Sylvain immediately cringed. Of course Dimitri would try to be nice and talk him through it. Things would have been _so much easier_ if they had just set him up with some faceless stranger instead, preferably some random church goon who could beat him bloody and walk away with no hard feelings, but of course things couldn’t be that way. As a house leader, this was just another duty Dimitri had to fulfill; one as equally tasteless, senseless, and ultimately necessary as any other. Making Crest babies, disowning firstborn sons, thrashing childhood friends—it all came down to duty in the end, didn’t it?

With a clenched jaw, Sylvain nodded as best he could at someone who was standing directly behind him. “Your Highness,” he said in a careful, measured voice, “this is insane. You’ve gotta get me out of here.”

“I can’t,” Dimitri murmured, with genuine regret, and Sylvain could have cursed him out on the spot. That look in his prince’s face—just pure disappointment, like Dimitri was disappointed that he _needed_ to punish him, like he didn’t have a choice, like Sylvain was _making_ him do this. It was a look that Sylvain had thought he would never have to see again.

“This isn’t fair,” Sylvain suddenly blurted out loud. Dimitri, bless him, froze up, and frantic hope reignited in Sylvain’s heart. Quickly, he started babbling, “I didn’t even do anything. He just wants to make an example out of me. Please, Your Highness, don’t do this.”

Dimitri cleared his throat, worriedly, and asked, “What did you say to Flayn?” and Sylvain’s desperation finally reached its breaking point.

“Does it matter?!” he cried out. “Imagine the worst thing I could have possibly said, and then ask yourself if it was worth twelve cuts. Please, Your Highness! This isn’t right!”

His wrists were bound together across the whipping post, but his fingers still had some limited freedom, and Sylvain anxiously wrung them together as Dimitri hesitated, with the cane hanging down loosely by his side. There was a moment of silence as the crowd held a collective breath, surrounding the two of them as they stood frozen, completely powerless, unconfident. A single bead of sweat rolled down Sylvain’s naked back. Unable to wipe it away, he shuddered.

“Proceed!” Seteth shouted. His voice cut through the tense air so loudly that a couple of students standing near him jumped. Sylvain’s whole body immediately went cold.

That was it, then.

“...Okay,” Dimitri mumbled, probably to himself. “Should I, uh...”

Behind a layer of gritted teeth, Sylvain held himself deathly still, staring straight ahead into the whipping post. He knew that he could not hide his shaking. Just get it over with. _Please_.

“Proceed!” Seteth shouted again. This time, it was a threat. Dimitri paled, and raised the cane above his head.

Sylvain breathed in and squeezed his eyes shut, and held them closed for one second, two seconds—and then his back exploded with pain.

The crowd gasped as Sylvain cried out, collapsing against the whipping post and sucking air through his teeth. The barb at the tip had snagged into his flesh, tearing what felt like a lengthy wound over his shoulder blade, although in his rational mind he knew it couldn’t have been any worse than a shallow surface cut. His rational mind promptly abandoned him as Dimitri brought the cane down again, tearing into his shoulder a second time. Sylvain let out a scream and slumped onto his knees.

“Do not falter!” Seteth commanded. It took Sylvain a moment to realize the words were meant for Dimitri, not him.

Metal struck a third time, and Sylvain’s whole body jolted from the force. He clutched the ropes that bound him in a white-knuckle grip, gripping hard enough to chafe away the skin of his fingers, his biceps straining to desperately hold him as Dimitri beat him again and again and again. A particularly rough hit shocked through his body and he gasped, instinctively raising a hand to his mouth, seeking something to bite down on even if that something was his own flesh—except his hand didn’t move from its restraint, leaving his teeth to smash down over empty air. Spit and curse words dribbled from his lips, falling forgotten to the dust of the ground.

The whipping post quickly became the only thing supporting his weight as he dangled by his arms, sobbing and writhing and begging all who would listen so that his punishment might pass. As abruptly as it began, the caning stopped. Sharp pain quickly blossomed throughout his whole body, radiating out from his back, climbing up his limbs and buzzing in his teeth. Sylvain curled up atop his knees, sniffling every other second, panting and heaving through his desperate sobs. The whole of his back felt disgustingly sticky and wet. His shoulders were sore, somehow _more_ sore than the rest of him, possibly wrenched from their sockets by his twisting and turning, and vaguely, he became aware of Dimitri hastily cutting his hands free. Two people caught each of his wrists and lifted him up onto his feet, supporting him by each arm, while carefully leaving his back untouched. It didn’t make him hurt any less.

He still would have been screaming, maybe, if his voice hadn’t already been stripped raw, and he experimentally opened his mouth to discover no sound coming out. A gauntleted hand reached towards his face, but then withdrew, like Dimitri was stunned, as if he was _concerned_ , and he remained that way until Sylvain’s tears finally did the mercy of blurring him from sight.

That worried look on Dimitri’s face—great, now he had gone and made the prince feel guilty again.

As always, Sylvain had no one to blame but himself. Because if it hadn’t been for _him_...

Everything was always his fault, wasn’t it? A spoiled, pampered Crest baby, free to exist without consequence. He was only lashing out because he was so unused to being lashed himself.

“Let’s go,” Felix hissed in his ear, and he and Ingrid began frogmarching Sylvain away. Dazed, Sylvain could barely even lift his head. Were they even _allowed_ to collect him so soon? Didn’t Seteth have anything else clever to say? Sylvain made the mistake of glancing around, and could only pick familiar faces out of the crowd—Annette, pressing her hands tightly over her mouth, her eyes wide as saucers, and Ashe with a hand on her shoulder, wincing in sympathy. Above them all, there was Seteth, who already was busying himself with ordering the crowd to disperse. Once again, Sylvain was beneath his notice. But he didn’t doubt that Seteth still had an eye on him, and he could have sworn for a second that the smug asshole was _smirking_ at him.

One way or another, somebody had learned a lesson today.

***

His pride healed much quicker than his back did. It took no time at all for Sylvain to return to his ways, redoubling his efforts as if determined to prove how unaffected he was by his public humiliation. On more than one occasion, a girl had giggled, asking him if he was _that_ poor whipping boy, and he was always ready with a wink and a smile—yes, that would be me, now wouldn’t you like a chance to try and tame the beast? And his total lack of shame was pretty reliable at doing what it was designed to do. The scars on his back gave the girls something to dig their fingernails into, and that always put a smile on his face. He’d much rather be known for what he’d done instead of what he was born with.

Professor Hanneman was disappointed to see him go, but Sylvain managed to wave him off with some lame excuse that involved the new professor’s rack and didn’t involve the fact that they talked about Crests for two hours every day. He made a point of ogling her as she and Seteth and Claude signed all his paperwork, mostly because it was easier than looking Seteth in the eye.

He hadn’t come to the academy to learn, anyway. If the new professor happened to be easy on the eyes, that was just a bonus.

***

The professor killed his brother.

Or maybe it was him.

Or maybe it was Claude, or Ignatz, or Leonie. So many arrows were flying at that _thing_ from all sides that it was impossible to tell which one had actually finished the job.

In the end, did it really matter?

***

“No,” he whimpered, “no, _no_ —”

“You really fucked up this time, Gautier,” said one of the knights. His companion grimaced and yanked on Sylvain’s wrist, dragging him another step forward. Stubbornly, Sylvain dug his heels into the ground like a horse—or a petulant child, more like—but the two knights uprooted him effortlessly and pulled him along as though he weighed nothing, and he lost his balance, lurching forward again under their control.

He screamed. He couldn’t help it. There were already enough eyes on him, with the crowd of students who had followed them from the classrooms, through the concourse, and Sylvain started screaming again, loudly, prompting angry scowls from the knights. They might have gagged him to shut him up. They still might, if he showed them that he deserved it. His uniform was disheveled and now more knights had come running, forcing him down, _putting their hands in places_ —his screaming grew louder, and a punch sank solidly into his stomach, cutting off his air. He hurriedly wheezed as the knights rounded on him, and—no, _no_ , they were lifting his shirt over his head, peeling him from his clothes, and no matter how much he struggled he couldn’t get free but he couldn’t stop himself from twisting and rolling and fighting back even though he perfectly knew how fighting back had never ever helped him before.

He might have passed out. He might have died and this was hell. He might have been stuck in another nightmare, just like back at Conand Tower, except, that nightmare had turned out to be real, hadn’t it?

He blinked and found himself naked from the waist up, with the knights once again tying his wrists around the whipping post. Sylvain frantically glanced around in search of the missing half of his uniform, and a ridiculous twinge of relief ran through him when he spotted it discarded on the ground nearby. The crowd was already coalescing at a safe distance around him. Teenagers, drawn to gossip, in the same way that flies were drawn to pig shit. Typical.

Some kind of commotion was happening at the back of the courtyard, and, _oh_ , thank the Goddess, it was Dimitri pushing his way to the front of the crowd, spouting apologies as he did, and waving his arms frantically like a man would when trying to block the path of a runaway horse. It was enough for the knights to actually give them pause. Sylvain cracked a panicked, desperate smile. His last hope. His _only_ hope.

“Sylvain!” Dimitri stooped over to catch his breath, and waved the piece of paper clutched in his hand. The Crest of Gautier was visibly stamped in one corner. “We just received your father’s reply. He wrote that he doesn’t believe her claim, and, uh, he’s not giving her a single gold piece, but at the same time he’s extremely disappointed in you and—”

“Okay,” Sylvain said tersely. It would not do him well to snap at the only person still on his side. “I already knew he was going to say all that. Did you show it to Seteth?”

“We did, and...” Dimitri’s voice trailed off. “Well...”

Sylvain’s heart sank.

As if on cue, Seteth arrived, with the crowd of students parting freely to let him pass. Sylvain immediately broke into a nauseous sweat. His hair was damp—the bangs were tickling his eyes, and he had never quite appreciated his ability to simply brush hair out of his face until now, when his hands were bound for punishment. His throat felt low and heavy, like he was about to cry. How fitting, he realized. He _was_ about to cry.

“It wasn’t me,” he uttered, because it was _true_. Only Dimitri could hear him, but that could be fixed. “I didn’t do it!” Sylvain shouted to the crowd. It was obvious how desperate he sounded and he _hated_ how desperate he sounded, but he kept shouting anyway. “I don’t belong here! Seteth has a fucking grudge against me! You all know it’s true!”

“Calm yourself, Sylvain!” Seteth ordered. “The church has already passed judgement. Any further defiance on your part will only worsen your sentence.”

“But _it wasn’t me_!” Sylvain insisted. “I swear on my life, I swear before His Highness, it’s not mine. I did the math on this, the timing is way off, it _couldn’t have been me_ —”

“Sylvain Jose Gautier,” Seteth declared, cutting him off, “your actions have tarnished the good standing of the Officer’s Academy. In spite of _multiple_ , _repeated_ warnings from faculty, staff, and knights alike, you have continually chosen to pursue your vices, allowing your lowest instincts to control you. An impoverished young woman now bears the burden of your carelessness...” With one furious, deliberate motion, Seteth reached out and plucked the letter from Dimitri’s hand, glaring at Sylvain all the while. “...And, considering your family’s _absolute refusal_ to support her in _any_ way, you’ve all but condemned her to continued poverty and hardship. The staff at Garreg Mach are not your courtesans, Sylvain. They are not _playthings_ for the amusement of impetuous nobles—”

“But it’s not mine! I can prove it!” Sylvain screamed again, his voice rising to a frantic pitch, nearly on the verge of tears. Far be it from him to be a moral judge of anyone’s character, but the girl in question wasn’t exactly so trustworthy herself. She was a village girl who worked in the kitchens, a short, feisty brunette who bore a reputation similar to his own, who had once pulled a knife on him for letting his eyes drift to where they shouldn’t have, not that that had dissuaded him from climbing into bed with her on a regular basis. He had spent much of the last two months in her company, trying to forget, and either drunk, or in the process of getting drunk, but even at his most stupid he would have never been so careless as to stop taking his herbs. The problem was that situations like this always boiled down to the woman’s word versus the man’s, and Sylvain was very aware of how provably worthless his word was. Already, he had resigned himself to eight full months of whispering and dirty stares and kitchen staff spitting into his meals, and he would endure it with a smile, because he _knew_ that in the end when the little bastard popped out the issue would finally be resolved—unless that little bastard turned out to be a little red-haired _Crest_ bastard, which it _wouldn’t_ be, because it _wasn’t his_.

“As is customary,” Seteth was saying, “the punishment will be administered by your house leader.”

Sylvain strained to look behind him, and sure enough, Claude von Riegan was strolling up with an uncharacteristically grim expression on his face, holding the cane like it was going to bite his hand.

“Hey,” he said tonelessly.

“Claude, you can’t do this.” Sylvain shook his restraints as he spoke, proving how little his wrists could move. His voice was already hollow and hoarse. “It’s not mine. _I don’t deserve to be here_!”

“...I believe you,” Claude said unconvincingly. “It’s just...you understand why no one else does, right?”

“I know how much of a fuckup I am, okay?!” He didn’t need a reminder. From what he had seen of that letter, his father was practically going to have him branded with the word.

Dimitri stepped in, shaking his head. “Sylvain, I’m sorry. We tried everything in our power, but the circumstances are just inarguable. Your relationship was well-known. This punishment may be the only—”

“Leave us. The time for counsel has passed,” Seteth interrupted, addressing Dimitri. Dimitri hesitated for a second, then gave Sylvain that guilty, worried look again, and Sylvain could have just burned on the spot.

Why was he like this? Why did he have to spread his pain to other people?

“I’m so sorry, Sylvain,” Dimitri said again. “There’s nothing more I can do.”

With that, his last hope walked off, gone. As Dimitri went, he picked up Sylvain’s ruffled shirt and jacket from where they lay, and Sylvain turned back around, staring downward into nothing, trying to suppress the squeeze building in his throat.

His prince was too good for him, that’s what the problem was. Felix had told Sylvain where he could shove it, while Ingrid had finally done what she had been threatening to do for years and left Sylvain to face his own consequences—and good for them, to cut off the biggest asshole in their lives. _That_ was something he deserved. But when charged with something he _didn’t_ deserve, only Dimitri was left to stand up for him, although he didn’t actually believe him—Sylvain honestly doubted _anyone_ did—but that was just the kind of person Dimitri was.

“Sorry to let you down, Your Highness,” Sylvain mumbled, although Dimitri could not possibly hear him. His version of a prayer. Claude gave him a quizzical look. It was just the two of them now, standing before a crowd which had nearly doubled in size already. The more of the Goddess’s followers who witnessed this, the better. This was for their benefit, not Sylvain’s.

“I’ve never seen Seteth that mad before,” Claude said. “I mean, really, _really_ mad. Not even at the beginning of the school year, when I...ran away, from the other two...he didn’t even get that mad.”

“Guess I just have that effect on people,” Sylvain said dully. Already, he was starting to tremble again. His skin prickled with dread that could not be scratched away. It crept down his throat, and he heaved, once, threatening to empty his stomach in fear.

“Claude, proceed with the caning,” Seteth ordered.

Sylvain risked a final glance over his shoulder. Claude stood calmly, just like he did before battle; not wanting to rush into any mistakes. He was twirling the cane around his fingers like one of his many arrows.

“Yeah, I’m getting to it,” said Claude. “Just...give me a second, alright?”

Sylvain began to cry, silent tears welling up and pouring down his cheeks.

“I’ve never done this before,” Claude admitted. “I suppose that makes me the last one...so, apologies in advance. Edelgard really went wild. I don’t know if I’ll be able to, uh...live up to her example...” It was a weak, misguided attempt to lighten the mood, and nobody smiled.

Those knights had locked his hands down lower and tighter than last time, and Sylvain grunted before he dropped down preemptively, his knees bruising on rough cobble. It didn’t make him any more comfortable. Did they want him to beg? He would have. He was in the perfect position for it now.

“Any areas I should avoid?” Claude asked him cautiously. “Any preexisting injuries? Anything I might accidentally break?”

“N-no,” Sylvain managed, and then realized he had missed something crucial. “W-wait. How many cuts...?”

“Forty.”

Sylvain’s eyes widened with horror.

“It increases exponentially,” Claude said lamely, by way of both apology and explanation. “We might actually...uh...run out of space, on your body...”

“Claude, that’s enough stalling!” Seteth shouted. “Carry out the punishment, _now_!”

There was a pause, a deep breath, and then the telltale _swoosh_ of thin metal before the first strike met Sylvain’s flesh.

He screamed as his body was torn again, reeling in pain, with fresh new tears already streaming down his face. Blinding slashes crisscrossed throughout his back and hooked into the wounds that were already there, the barb catching his scars and ripping his skin like old fabric. Each strike was accompanied by a sickening _smack_ ; the revolting sound of cane scraping flesh, of swollen, reddening welts being raised on his skin, _under_ his skin, and Sylvain’s howls and sobbing surely completed the music, exactly as designed. Rivulets of blood trickled down his back, mingling with his salty sweat, washing over him, and ultimately coming to rest at a disgusting pool soaking into the hem of his waistband. He’d never feel clean again.

“Harder, Claude!” Seteth shouted, and Sylvain could have snickered hysterically; he probably would have, had he been in the audience instead of on his knees. His house leader complied, thrashing Sylvain in perfect tempo, steady and methodical. Everything Claude did was methodical, and, for just a moment, Sylvain imagined how methodical Claude would be somewhere else. He would have fucked Claude. He would have fucked anybody, if it gave him a distraction from the pain. Then again, that was what had caused this mess the first place, wasn’t it?

The thirteenth cut whipped across his back—this time, he had remembered to count—causing Sylvain to let out another stifled cry. That was already more than his previous punishment, so if he could just handle that twice more it would be _over_ , he would be free, he would be laughing it off in the morning; but to a great deal of distress Sylvain tried to pull himself up and found his arms could inexplicably no longer move. His back muscles had gone dead, and—

Another crack tore across his back as he gave in to total despair.

That was it. This was the end. There was only so much any man could endure. His hope shattered to pieces, and when the brunt of the next cut landed he fully lost his composure, recoiling as low as his restraints would allow, screaming through his panic and pain.

The next minutes were nothing but _pure_ _agony_ as he hung limply from the whipping post, choking on the taste of his own blood, his shallow breaths coming so hard and fast that he began retching, the invasive feeling fingering its way up his throat before being pushed back down by frantic mouthfuls of air and saliva—he was going to _die_ here, forcibly bled out for his transgressions, like any sinner would for doing even half of what he’d done. He was going to break his arms and his back and his shoulders from struggling, and then pass out from the pain and never wake up. He was going to choke on his bile and keel over, convulsing and spitting and writhing until they threw him in the gutter to die like a diseased animal. He was going to meet his brother in hell and Miklan would beat him again and laugh and laugh and _laugh_ as he burned and nothing could make Sylvain cry even harder, but still, his tears and suffering just _wouldn’t stop_.

More unconscious than not, Sylvain barely registered that it was over until more hands reached out for him, but he had no more power left to scream; he had no more effort left to give. They pulled him back to an upright position, and it was Dimitri’s hazy image in front of him, pressing a sip of water to his mouth. Sylvain immediately pushed it out with his tongue, and it spilled weakly through his lips to drool pathetically down his front. The buzz of the audience was no longer capable of bothering him. If anyone in the crowd was having their noble sensibilities offended, good. They could only blame themselves for watching.

The show’s over, he wanted to say to them. Go home. I can’t do this anymore.

A different kind of buzzing sounded in his ears, and he realized, following one final horrified attempt at screaming, that the flies had already begun to swarm. Pinprick sensations landed on his back, each one as distinct as a knifepoint on his flayed body, and it might have been the thought of them walking around on his open flesh and tasting his blood that finally allowed Sylvain to black out.

***

It wasn’t even a week before the truth started spreading. Sylvain didn’t know what had happened, exactly—he was paying much less attention to the whole affair than he honestly should have been, so when vindication finally came it didn’t feel earned, somehow. Maybe his father had sent their spies to investigate, or maybe, more likely, maybe the kitchen girl was just awful at keeping her mouth shut. Either way, his father sent out another letter, proudly proclaiming that the Gautier line remained as coveted as ever. Great. As soon as Sylvain regained his ability to walk, he immediately walked over to the nearest wall and slammed it with his forehead.

No one really wanted to acknowledge what happened. That was fine. The only thing Sylvain really wanted to hear was an apology from Seteth, and since the chances of _that_ happening were less than zero, he was content to just be on speaking terms with his classmates again.

“I’m sorry you had to go through with that,” Dimitri said, for what was maybe the twentieth time. Sylvain rolled his eyes, playing it off.

“It’s _fine_ , Your Highness. How many times do I have to say it?” With a flourish, he leaned back against a stone pillar, resting his hands behind his head, acting completely unperturbed. “I’m over it, okay? Don’t lose any sleep because of somebody else’s dumb mistake.”

“It was more than just that,” Dimitri insisted. “Sylvain, the past couple of months have been...a trying time for all of us. I should have done more to help you, even if you’re not in my class anymore.”

Sylvain let a grin show on his face. “Come on, Your Highness, you know you don’t have to do anything for me. I’ve already got all the help I need.” Dimitri crossed his arms, still doubtful, so Sylvain winked and added, “Ah, you know. It’s nothing a pretty girl can’t fix.”

That was enough to elicit a sigh, and Sylvain stuck his hands up in playful protest. “Okay, okay, I’m kidding, Your Highness! Ingrid’s already given me the lecture.”

Dimitri raised an eyebrow. “Would you like another one?”

“Nah, I got them all memorized,” Sylvain said. “Look, I know you’re just trying to help, and that’s pretty much already more than I deserve. It’s more than I can say about my dad, at least. I know my family’s messed up. It shouldn’t be your job to fix it.” He flashed his prince his most winning, practiced smile. “You want to help me, Dimitri? You already have. And besides, there is a bright side to all of this! Maybe Seteth will think twice the next time he decides to single me out.”

Wryly, Dimitri asked, “Or perhaps you could simply give up your skirt chasing?”

With a mocking gasp, Sylvain clutched his hands over his heart, pretending to be affronted. “Give up skirt chasing? Why, Your Highness, I could _never_! That would be like asking Felix to give up his _angst_!”

It was silly, but it finally got Dimitri to smile a tiny bit, and Sylvain threw an arm over his shoulder just for effect. Dimitri automatically hesitated, but relaxed and let Sylvain smile at him.

He really did just want to help, didn’t he?

Sylvain’s father was the type of man who would share his pain with others out of spite, if he could find no other reason. His own father, who had disowned a firstborn son, who had thrown a desperate, pregnant woman from his doorstop. But Sylvain was not his father.

Dimitri had stuck with him because he believed Sylvain could be better.

Maybe Dimitri was right.

**Author's Note:**

> I think wanting to beat the shit out of Sylvain is a pretty normal reaction after playing through the game enough times


End file.
